


Wake the White Queen

by Ashesintheair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesintheair/pseuds/Ashesintheair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her time in the Eyrie, Sansa struggles with her identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake the White Queen

They had made camp – such as it was – in the lea of a rock formation. There was only a sprinkling of snow on the ground there and it had been easier to get a pitifully small fire going. Brienne had gone to see if she could find the village where they had sold their horses. The beasts hadn’t been much help in travelling up to the Eyrie, but it would be hard going on foot out of the Vale if she couldn’t buy them back.

Sansa shivered and wriggled closer to the fire. Her dress was wool, but it was a thin weave, meant for courtly wear and not travelling, particularly not in winter. There had been no time for anything, save bundling her off and out down the mountain. The Eyrie had been in confusion and uproar. It had been easy to whisk Sansa away without anyone paying much attention. Jaime wondered if anyone would even bother to look for her in the wake of the unfortunate death of Lord Baelish.

He sat with his back to the rock and watched as she drew the only blanket tighter around her shoulders. The world was grey with the first beginnings of winter and she looked luminous against the whites and greys of the Vale. She had said very little since they had found her and even now she preferred staring blankly into the fire to conversation.

“Lady Stark?” He tried to rouse her, but she showed little sign of having heard him. It wasn’t a desire to talk so much as to have her look at him. Her gaze, even clouded with whatever thoughts haunted her, was compelling and he found that he would have preferred that she never look away. “Lady Stark. Alayne?”

Her head turned up at the last. “Ser?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. There had been no real question. That she answered so readily to Littlefinger’s charade of a name galled him though he understood well enough what it was to bury a part of yourself deep and assume another face. “You don’t have to be Alayne now. You understand that, don’t you?”

Sansa nodded, a numb automatic response, and her blue eyes darted back to the fire. She shivered again and tucked bone white fingers under the blanket.

Jaime sighed and moved around to sit next to her. “I haven’t spent so long looking for you for you to freeze to death now. Come here.” He pulled the leather coat open and beckoned her.

She stared at him for a long moment. He was about to shrug and wrap himself back up when she moved at last. She shuffled over, curling into his side with a little noise. The coat wasn’t large enough for him to close it, but it would afford them both a little warmth. Her head fell into the crook of his shoulder and it was easy to put his arm around her and pull her in close.

“Your first taste of winter?” he asked, feeling her shoulders shaking. Too late he heard a choked sob.

“I don’t know what to do, what to _be_ ,” she managed. “Who am I? Sansa Stark or Alayne Stone? I don’t remember how to be Sansa anymore. I put her away and I can’t find her again.”

He wanted to say a lot of things. He wanted to say that he knew a little something of pretending to be a different person, that he knew about burying things almost too deep to find. The words wouldn’t come. He tightened the maimed arm around her. “Then don’t be Sansa Stark. Be Lady Stark of Winterfell now. Become a different person.”

She twisted and moved until she was knelt over his leg. The tears had dried and she looked curiously at him. “And what would Lady Stark of Winterfell do, ser?”

Her gaze was fixed on him again and he couldn’t trust himself to answer.

***

Sansa looked back, searching his eyes. She could remember all the dreams of the girl who had left Winterfell for King’s Landing; dreams of a true knight, dreams of courtly love, dreams of being saved, protected. She could almost laugh at it, if she could only remember how. She had been saved, and her true knight was an oathbreaker and kingslayer. And Petyr had taught her well that courtly love was nothing but a story.

_I did everything he told me to. I did everything. And now I will be married off to someone for my claim. I will have something for myself, first. I will have something that is mine and that I choose to do._

She wasn’t sure, at first. She thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. She thought that his body was tense where they were pressed together, but her stomach churned at the thought of rejection.

What would Lady Stark do? Lady Stark would need to be decisive and strong to deal with the bannermen of the North. Lady Stark would not be afraid because no one would ever dare to reject her.

She was still creating the fiction, the elaborate new version of herself that would accomplish all she wanted, that would never be afraid, when Jaime closed the distance and kissed her lightly.

He stared at her a moment, perplexed, and then did it again, as though he couldn’t quite believe that he had done it the first time and wanted to make sure. His mouth was warm and his beard was scratchy against her face but she welcomed it, her hands bunching in his shirt and hauling him closer. The sensations were familiar ones and there was comfort there. Comfort, and control. _My choice. Mine._

Jaime’s good hand came up to hold the back of her head, twisting into her hair, and Sansa mirrored the movement, tugging him back to her lips every time he tried to move away.

“Harder,” she breathed, the words falling into his mouth, and she bit his lip, trying to show him what she wanted. He groaned and responded in kind, catching at her lips with his teeth and it was long moments before he pulled away again.

“What is this?”

_Catharsis. Validation. You can’t marry me for my claim._ She couldn’t smile. Smiles didn’t feel real again yet. “If you wish to move me, you’re more than capable.” She moved her hips, pushing in closer, and the arm without a hand tugged at her waist reflexively.

Jaime didn’t answer, didn’t move at all and the green eyes raked over her face, bright and hungry. There was something strange in his expression and she wonder for a moment if she was the only one who needed catharsis.

His hand slid from her hair to her chin, pushing her face up and back until he could kiss and nibble his way along her jaw. He found his way to her neck and Sansa sighed into it, arching her body until she was pressed tight against his thigh. Her hips rocked, achingly slowly, trying to find a rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

Jaime was still at her neck, licking and biting between panting breaths, and she felt the groan rise in his chest when her hand trailed down. Her fingers fumbled at the laces of his breeches and he hissed at the iciness of her touch, even as he bucked and pushed his cock into her palm.

His hand was snaking up her leg, pushing under the skirt of her dress. She felt his thumb stroke at the smooth skin on the inside of her thigh and she kissed him again; slow, opened mouthed kisses that ended with his forehead touching hers, leaning against hers. His tugged her smallclothes away just enough and his fingers stroked at her, gently at first, but she was soon pushing onto them, grinding herself against his thumb and biting her lip to keep quiet. She had ached to be touched and her hand tightened around his cock, working him harder in her own ecstasy.

He knocked her hand away without a word and she understood. There was a mad fumble of limbs as she shifted until her knees were firmly planted in the frost either side of him and he leaned back against the rock as she slid down. Sansa whimpered and feverishly writhed on him, desperate now for release and Jaime tried to work his hand between them, but he couldn’t manage it with his left.

“Can you...?” he asked and she nodded quickly, wriggling her hand under the skirt. It wouldn’t take long. She knew herself far too well for that and was in no mood to delay gratification.

Jaime’s hand lifted her chin again. “Look at me.”

_He wants my eyes,_ she thought through the haze. _It’s easier than Petyr who wanted my mother_. She pushed the thought far, far to the back of her mind and focussed again on her fingers, on her own wetness, on the frantic rhythm of Jaime inside her.

She felt herself tense, the muscles in her legs going tight, and she gave a low moan in anticipation. She bucked hard as she came, her mouth open wide in a gasp that drew cold air right down into the depths of her lungs. Jaime’s eyes had gone wide and he pulled her hard against him, crying out as he came.

His head fell to her shoulder and Sansa absently touched his hair. She saw her breath hang in the air and it reminded her of playing at dragons in Winterfell, a lifetime ago. Idly, she wondered what Jaime had thought of her, of this and what he would expect from her now.

“Sansa.” It wasn’t a question. It was little more than a sigh and sounded as reverent as any prayer she had heard in the Sept.

“No,” she said gently. “No. Sansa’s gone. I’m Lady Stark.”


End file.
